


Blackened Feathers

by morrezela



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Familiars, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 11:01:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9892493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morrezela/pseuds/morrezela
Summary: Dean set out to save his brother’s soul. He ended up with a familiar in the process.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Art for 'Blackened Feathers'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9855641) by [Aceriee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aceriee/pseuds/Aceriee). 



> Warnings: Gore and violence.  
> A/N: This was written for 2017 SPN Reverse Bang.   
> Gorgeous art provided by: Aciree
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you Chrissie for the beta read. As always, all mistakes you find are my own.

[](http://s1308.photobucket.com/user/missaceriee/media/Thought%20and%20Memory/1000px%20Header_zpsxtbn6ivv.png.html)

The wind nipped through Dean’s cloak as his trudged up a narrow stone path. The steps were slick with water that slowly washed away the blood still clinging to his boots. The witch who had owned the altar had been reluctant to give Dean its location. He had begged for its preservation claiming that it had been in his family for generations. 

Dean couldn’t give the witch much sympathy. Where other hunters ignored witches, warlocks, and other magic users for fear of their lives, Dean had long since lost any sense of trepidation. He had lost something far more precious than an altar. Magic had stolen his brother’s life, taken Sam from his body as swiftly as death.

But Sam wasn’t carried off to some great afterlife. No. Though day after day passed, Sam’s body did not decompose. It did not reek of decay. Its skin was not cool to the touch. But neither did it breathe. There was no beating heart inside it’s chest. Sam’s body seemed suspended in the scarcest moment of time. Caught between life and death, choosing neither.

At first, Dean had puzzled over the occurrence. He had felt something akin to hope. That hope was the hope of a foolish boy who knew not why his brother had been taken from him. Now though, now he knew. Sam had been chosen since before his birth. A child who would hold great power if the right spell caster ever laid hands on him.

What hope did a simple monster hunter have against such power? None. Sage and soothsayer alike told Dean to leave it be. Some advised to bury Sam in a glass coffin like the princess of yore. Others said Dean should burn the body, and it would release Sam’s spirit from the ethereal chains that bound it to the man who called himself Azazel. 

But while Dean was no conjurer, no wielder of the arcane, he knew when a man spoke with more certainty than he ought. No matter who he visited, what sort of bargains he struck, none had the power to truly help him. So he sought out his own power.

It was forbidden among the hunting community to pursue the paths Dean had taken. Hunters were supposed to destroy monsters. They were always to keep a clear and distinct line between themselves and the creatures they destroyed. This line was, in theory, a sort of protection.

In reality, that moral line was nothing but a convenient shield for cowards to hide behind. They could ignore the sorcerers who used dark magic for evil doing. Hunters hid behind the idea that the deeds of humans were not their concern. In turn, wielders of dark magic were free to do whatever they desired. No mortal knight dared stop them, and no hunter would intervene.  
On one hand, the lack of action disgusted Dean. How could all these men and women allow such despicable acts to go without reprisal? On the other hand, none of the magic users he pursued were ever prepared for his attacks. They saw his hunter’s medallion and the crest of Winchester emblazoned on his sword, and they thought him harmless.

Dean relished in proving them wrong. Sam would probably frown at the notion, but Sam had not been around for years now. Dean had to seek comfort where he could find it. If that solace was found in the blood of warlocks, what remorse should he feel? 

There would be time enough for remorse and guilt when Sam was finally free from his prison. Perhaps then Dean would care about the way other hunters had begun to shun him. Then he would care about the magic that burned unnaturally in his veins. Then he might pause to think about what sort of ill he had done himself by mixing together magics he should not. 

But those thoughts were for later. The here and now required his utmost attention. The ritual for summoning and binding a spirit creature to one’s will was complex. Even amongst witches, the practice had gone out of favor over the years. The power used to complete it was immense. The strain put upon the participants had only been described as excruciating.

Normally, there would be five elder witches accompanying the soon to be bonded witch. They would use their own strength to stabilize the ritual, provide a cushion for any errant magic that arose. Dean wasn’t a witch though, and he was trespassing on an altar that did not belong to his family.

But, as many things in his life, he had no other options. If the ritual killed him, he would at least die knowing that he had done everything within his power to save his brother. It would be a cold comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. 

If he succeeded, he would have more power than he ever imagined wielding. He might finally be able to undo the complex curses that kept Sam’s soul from rejoining his body. With that sort of motivation before him, Dean did not hesitate when the soles of his boots finally hit the landing. He places the correct herbs and stones in pots and holders. The rain tried to douse the flames he lit, but a flick of his hand kept the fires going.

It was a neat trick he had picked up from a pixie not long ago. They weren’t typically hunter’s prey, and had been properly terrified of him when he came tromping into their village. Because of that, they had been all too willing to share the secrets of their elders in exchange for him leaving them be. Now, flames were easily conjured and extinguished with a flick of his hand leaving him room in his saddle bags where his tinder box once took up residence.

When all the flames were lit and crystals properly aligned, Dean sprinkled a bit of his blood on the altar. He did not expect things to move along quickly. If his quest had taught him anything, power did not come quickly to those seeking it. 

It was a surprise then when he found himself flung onto his back as if the air itself had taken physical form. The world around him blurred. His ears were filled with whispers so indistinct that they may as well have been memories. His tongue was thick, even if he wished to speak, he could not.

His chest felt as though his heart might explode through it. Pain lanced through his body to the point that it was a relief to feel himself slip into unconsciousness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Castiel hopped nervously on the ground. The unconscious man before him was a mage of some sort, though not like any kind he had seen before. If anything, he had the soul of a hunter. Strong and protective were the walls of his soul. The heart of a man who would trample any monster’s nest.

Yet Castiel was bound to him by a magic older as old as the night sky. The last he had checked, hunters had as little to do with sorcery as possible. They saved the writing of spells to a priest or a white mage instead of writing them with their own hands. They craved the separation of themselves from the supernatural world they inhabited.

The man who lay before him had his blood filled with magical essences though. The last human Castiel had seen with such power had imploded seconds later. Of course, those who sought such power rarely possessed the desire to do good. Perhaps that was the difference between this man and others. 

With a groan, the man blinked open his eyes. A low croak came out of his lips before a stream of curses followed. It did not take long for green eyes to land on Castiel’s form. Surprise registered there. That was interesting. Certainly the man had known the ritual being performed. No nefarious magic user would use such a thing to torture another soul.

“A raven?” the man said with a shake of his head. “Dad would probably laugh his ass off. Or shoot me,” the man murmured as he pushed himself to his feet. 

Castiel let out a soft caw of understanding. He had not been wrong. The man was definitely a hunter and one who knew what having a raven familiar meant. Only those capable of great magic could summon one. Those sorts of people were naturally hated by the hunters who so desperately clung to their humanity. 

“So, what’s your name?” the man asked as he looked down at Castiel. He looked uncomfortable, though that could be because of the damp state of his clothes.

“Castiel,” the raven replied. He flew to the man’s shoulder much more gracefully than the man had stood. “Yours?” Castiel asked once he was comfortably perched.

“Shouldn’t you know that?” 

“I can see your soul, not your thoughts,” Castiel informed him.

“Dean,” the man said as he started trudging down a set of rather worn stairs. “Dean Winchester.”

All thoughts of stairs evaporated from Castiel’s braid. The Winchesters were something of a legend in the hunting world. The result of the son of a scholar who threw himself into the world of hunting when his wife died, taking on the mantle she had so desperately tried to avoid. Disowned by his fellow scholars, John Winchester had been what demons, ghouls, and ghosts feared.

He had proven once and for all that hunters did not need the Men of Letters to survive. When traditional methods failed, he would create his own way of doing things. What was once experimental became standard practice after a few short years.

But John Winchester couldn’t hope to hold a candle to his sons. Dean Winchester was the sort of name that pervaded every circle of the supernatural world. Many feared him; many hated him. Sam Winchester, on the other hand, was a more complex man.

The last Castiel had heard, before he was locked away to be punished for all eternity, was that Sam Winchester’s spirit and soul had been pulled from his body and chained in Silveritum. A ghostly oracle of immense foresight, he was forced to tell the future to Azazel. 

With his brother’s face so decidedly tied to magic, it was surprising that Dean would go down the same road. Unless…

“You seek to undo your brother’s fetters,” Castiel announced. He felt the muscles in Dean’s shoulders tense at the proclamation.

“Smarter than I thought,” Dean grunted, “and better informed too.”

“The story of your brother is well known. Simple deduction dictates that you seek to free him from his bonds,” Castiel said. “If you wish me to help you find him, it is best that you be honest with me.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” Dean agreed as he stepped onto solid ground. They were in a forest, Castiel observed. The stone tower they had descended from looked decidedly out of place amongst all the unblemished scenery. 

There was a horse wandering around nearby. It was not tethered to anything and came when Dean whistled. Clearly it was a superiorly well trained animal. 

“Hey Baby,” Dean cooed at the horse. The timbre of his voice was full of fondness, and it wasn’t hard to see why. The horse was an impressive specimen without a single muscle out of place. It’s glossy, black coat shone in the dim light of the forest.

Dean saddled the horse quickly, pulling his gear out from a sheltered place near the base of the tower. Castiel said nothing as he worked, sensing that this new witch would not appreciate commentary or questions until they had put distance between themselves and the tower. The disquiet Castiel could feel within himself was almost certainly tied to Dean’s own feelings. It would be best not to prod at him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean shivered as his horse picked its way along an overgrown, gravel path. Somewhere above him, Castiel let out a caw that echoed in the early morning fog. Dean tried not to think about what being bonded to a raven meant. He tried not to think about the fear that other hunters would have upon seeing a raven bonded to any witch. But thoughts of ill omens and evil intent swirled through Dean’s head despite his resistance to them. 

There was something rather strange about his new familiar. For one thing, its blue eyes were uncommon. Even though familiars were magical in nature, they almost always looked identical to Earthly creatures. For another thing, Dean wasn’t quite sure about the way being bonded to the creature was affecting him.

All the tomes and scrolls he’d read said that having a familiar bound to him should increase the power of his magic, but none of them indicated that the affect would be so strong. What used to take hours of focus was no accomplishable with a flick of his wrist. Fire summoned and dispersed with a mere twitch of his fingers. Rock melted and reformed with the barest hint of a thought. What once took herbs and incantations now required a single word be uttered. 

If he was honest, Dean would say that he was scared by his new strength. Dean had been raised not to admit such a weakness as fear though. Even if he was able to do so, he didn’t have time to be worrying about what might happen to him or to the world. Whatever the consequences, he wasn’t about to undo the binding spell that he used to tie Castiel to him – not until he found Sam.

Though Dean had been a hunter all his life, tracking Sam was like tracking a ghost. If Sam was a monster, Dean would have dismissed his existence. Vague whispers were the only clues that Dean could glean from witnesses. It was as if their tongues were bound or their minds muddled.

If anything, their lack of information was a clearer sign of Sam’s continued existence than anything else. Whenever bright, normal people could no longer seem to form sentences, Dean could be certain that Sam had been near them sometime in the past. The problem was figuring out when, exactly, he had been near. 

Even in his empowered state, telling magical trails from each other was a task that required concentration and effort. Dean dismounted and knelt on the muddied road, heedless of the cold bite of the morning air. He could feel the tug of magic pulling his soul first one way and then another. Whether it was the nearby crossroads, muddling the magical signals, or just his own fatigue dampening his senses, he did not know. 

The bright spark of Castiel was as much a hindrance as a help. As the raven hopped about on the road, looking for the trails Dean was so desperate to find, he presence seemed to bob and weave with him. Every time Dean tried to focus on the ley lines and magical residue clinging to them, a flutter would distract him.

“Do you mind?” Dean finally asked when he had more headache than hint inside his skull.

Castiel cawed at him and flitted back to rest upon his shoulder. “You should rest,” he said as if oblivious to Dean’s request.

“I don’t need rest. I need you to stop distracting me,” Dean growled. 

An irritation that was not his own fluttered in his skull. “I am not a toy to be put away. You sought my power,” Castiel reminded him.

Dean suppressed a growl as he climbed to his feet. Familiars were not supposed to be contrary in nature. They were supposed to be ideally bonded to the mage or warlock that summoned them. But then Dean was never supposed to become a mage, warlock, or magic user of any kind. He was a hunter born from a long line of hunters and wise men. The magic they dabbled in was carefully tested by elder hunters for decades before it was declared fit for regular use. 

Hunters were not supposed to blur the line separating them from those who casually wielded magic. Dean had broken that line. Perhaps this uneven bonding was his recompense for his actions.

“Let’s keep moving,” he said as he launched himself back into his saddle. There was a town farther on. He might heed Castiel’s advice and rest there. His black steed eased easily into a walk, hooves sinking into the soft dirt of the road. 

The instant it stepped into the crossroads, there was a flash of red light. It was a testament to both Dean’s riding skills and the excellent temperament of his mount that he did not go flying through the air. Somewhere above him, Castiel screeched. 

“It has been a long time since I’ve felt so powerful a mage,” the smoke muttered as it coalesced into the form of a woman. “Though I’m not sure I should call you that. You’re not quite pure enough to be one.”

“Well, you’d be right about that,” Dean said as his hand crept towards the hilt of his blade. “What’s a crossroads demon like you doing out in the open? Some idiot die before you finished giving them their wish?”

The demon hummed as if intrigued. “A rather well informed mage. Not every day you meet one of them. Your kind don’t normally study our lore.”

“I bet,” Dean said as his fingers dug into his sword’s grip. With the slightest touch of his heels, his horse surged forward. His blade drew free of is scabbard with a satisfying ring. 

The demon screamed and dispersed back into a cloud of smoke, though she was unlikely to have been hurt by the blade. More likely she as enraged by his actions. Even if a mage were to carry a blessed blade, they were unlikely to carry one meant for hunting monsters. 

“Hunter!” the demon spat as she reformed. “You deceived me!”

“I’m not going to apologize if that’s what you’re looking for,” Dean told her. 

The demon smirked. “It’s not. I simply need your power to break free of my contract. A few hundred years of granting wishes to humans has dulled the appeal of this position. It’s time I moved up in the world, and you are my ticket to that goal.”

“I’m not letting you out,” Dean informed her.

“That is where you’d be mistaken,” the demon said as she waved her arm. The mists that had been surrounding Dean since dawn disappeared in an instant to reveal a magical trap that had been hidden inside them. 

Years ago, Dean might have been frightened to be in such a trap. Though they were not the most dangerous of demons, crossroads demons were crafty. Dealing with them was tricky even in the best of circumstances.

But even though he was trapped, Dean didn’t feel frightened or even concerned. What he felt was Castiel swooping down from above, flying straight towards his position. Instinctively, Dean reached out his hand towards the invisible barrier of the trap. 

The world seemed to stretch between his palm and the tip of Castiel’s beak. It was as if a river twisted between them instead of air, blurring Dean’s sight. Then there was a loud popping sound as Castiel pushed through the barrier to land on Dean’s hand. 

Power that Dean hadn’t even realized had dampened rushed back into his fingertips. With a wave of his hand, he sent the demon crashing towards the ground. “Time for you to go back where you came from,” he said as he alit off his horse. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t looking forward to doing a simple exorcism for once.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Looking back, Castiel realized, the months spent on the road seemed like mere days. Though Dean had initially been taciturn, they had settled into a comfortable, if fast paced, existence. Admittedly, Castiel had no clue what sort of life most familiars lead. Perhaps they all traveled from place to place, barely awake yet refusing to sleep.

But he somehow doubted that. As far as he could tell, from his limited life experience, most humans tended to stay in one spot. Even those who travelled seemed to cross the countryside more slowly. Dean was always trotting somewhere, his faithful black horse not breaking stride regardless off the roughness of the terrain.

Even the fabled hunters that stared at Dean with jaded eyes didn’t seem to swallow the Earth whole. Those hunters, however, did not have a Sam in their lives. This was a fact that Castiel knew beyond anything else. Dean was tormented by the fate of his brother. The protectiveness he felt, his guilt over Sam’s fate – this was what drove him.

Bonded to Dean as he was, Castiel could feel his anguish every time a new lead disappeared. The frustration, the impotence he felt was at times smothering. So when a specter that vaguely resembled the not quite dead corpse of Dean’s brother appeared, Castiel automatically assumed it was some bleed from his bond with Dean. Perhaps Dean had thought about Sam so often that Castiel was now summoning a vision of him.

“Cas,” the tall spirit said. 

The voice made Castiel ruffle his feathers. There was something very real about the vision before him. A thought crossed his mind about waking Dean, but the hunter was finally resting for once. If he woke him, who knew when Dean would rest again.

“Cas,” the spirit said again, this time with a hint of impatience in his tone, “you have to hurry.”

“Hurry where?” Castiel tried to caw even though Dean was the only one who would understand him.

“Azazel is planning something. I grow weaker by the day. You have to hurry. Come to tallest cliff on the seaside. Come quickly.” 

Before Castiel could caw again, the specter vanished. One instant it was there. The next it was gone. He cocked his head to the side to stare at the space it had been occupying, but whatever magical residue was there, there was not much left for him to see. 

With a flutter, he glided to Dean’s side. Perhaps this vision was nothing more than a vision. It could even be a trap. Castiel knew that regardless of what awaited them on that cliff, Dean would never forgive him if he did not pass the message along. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The cliff on the seaside was cast in shadows by the time Dean reached its base. Though they had traveled swiftly, there was only so far his horse could travel in one day. Using magic to enhance their stamina was a dangerous proposition. Whatever awaited him at the top of the cliff, it was unlikely to be good.

Azazel, the name of Sam’s captor or so the vision claimed, was powerful. Dean could still remember the day he had come to take Sam. He could remember railing against powers he couldn’t see, screaming as Sam’s body fell to the floor – breathing yet not alive. 

Now, Dean could see the magic swirling in the night sky. His skin felt alive with its currents, yet repulsed by it as well. There was no doubt in his mind that there was evil intent in the strands. That he could feel the difference was somewhat comforting. Whatever he had done to himself, whatever power he had acquired, he was not as evil as whatever was at the top of the cliff. 

With swift hands, he tucked away potions and weapons into the folds and pockets of his cloak. His sword was a comforting weight even though it had done him now good when Sam was first taken. There were new inscriptions on it though. Runes and blessings coated the finish. 

Castiel perched on his shoulder when he was finished, apparently needing no additional signal that Dean was ready to go. The familiar said nothing as they began the climb. There was something pleasant about the burn in his muscles as Dean ascended. It took his mind away from wondering what might be waiting for him at the top. 

But that pleasantness couldn’t last forever, and Dean didn’t want it to. He needed to find Sam. Whether his brother was at the top of this cliff or another, he was going to accomplish that goal. 

“Dean,” Castiel chirruped in his ear as they neared the end of their trek. Dean stopped in his tracks instinctively. Though they had only been bonded for a short time, his body was already in tune with the Raven’s. 

Taking a fortifying breath, Dean concentrated on seeing the ethereal world that hid just beneath the view of the mortal one. What had felt like evil tendrils at the base of the cliff were swirling eddies of pain and torture at the top. Never had Dean wanted to run away from a place so badly.

He pushed the feeling aside ruthlessly. There was something familiar about the magic, something that he knew as well as he knew himself. 

“Sam,” he breathed out, Castiel echoing the word. It felt unreal. To have his journey end. To be so close to finally retrieving his brother’s spirit. To search for years only to be lead to him by pure chance. 

“Not chance,” Castiel commented. 

Dean ignored him and started moving forward again. He moved carefully, wary of those who would do him or Sam harm. He counted five people, possibly demons or other monsters, painting runes on the rock and dirt of the cliff’s top. Though he could not sense Azazel nearby, Dean did not doubt that he was. There was no way he would leave Sam unguarded.

As Dean circled what looked like a makeshift camp, he kept his eyes searching for Sam. When they finally lit upon him, he could barely restrain his rage. Sam’s ethereal form was slumped over. Though he was incorporeal, there were golden shackles around his wrists. A long chain holding him to what looked like an iron pole. Dark magic tendrils dug into where his veins would be if he still had a body. 

They were draining him, using him for some nefarious purpose. Dean took a step forward, then hesitated. He needed to stop the ritual, but how? Should he release Sam from his restraints first? Or should he destroy the minions?

The choice was, unfortunately, made for him seconds later. “You know, I never expected you to make it this far,” conversational, yet threatening, words whispered in his ear.

The yellow eyed monster smiled at Dean when he turned to look at the thing that had taken Sam from him.

“You don’t have Sam’s abilities, his gifts. Yet here you are all magicked up and ready to throw your life away. Bravo brave hunter. I’m sure many a barmaid will cry in memory of you.”

 

“Seem awfully sure that you can defeat me,” Dean said, trying to buy himself some time to think. 

Azazel laughed. “You’re a simple hunter who has stolen more power than he knows what to do with. And your familiar, well, he’s rather familiar to me. I must say, I had wondered where Sam had sent you, Castiel.”

Dean could feel confusion filter through his bond with his familiar. Whatever Azazel was hinting at, Castiel didn’t understand it. That was fine though, because it ultimately didn’t matter. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. 

Without any options left, Dean took the only out that he could find. With a yell, he pulled out his sword and swung it at Azazel. The creature laughed again, but Dean didn’t stay near enough to see what sort of attacks he was planning on retaliating with. 

With swifter feet than he thought he possessed, Dean ran towards Sam’s side. He doubted that Azazel would risk damaging the source of his power. Even if he did, Dean would die by his brother’s side. He wouldn’t leave Sam to meet his fate alone.

“Dean,” a tired of echo of Sam’s voice greeted him.

“No time for pleasantries,” Dean growled. 

“Castiel,” Sam said, ignoring Dean’s sage advice. “I am glad to see you again even if you are… avian.”

“If you haven’t noticed, we’re about to be attacked,” Dean said as he watched the five minions start to approach. Azazel was nowhere to be seen, which was probably more concerning than anything else. 

“Give me your hand,” Sam said.

“Not the time to…”

“Give it to me!” Sam yelled. Winds pushed against Dean’s skin, seemingly out of nowhere. Sam’s form flashed as if charged with lightning.

Whatever dark thoughts Dean had had about the power he had sought, they were nothing compared to the pure fury of Sam. But there was no time to consider the implications of Sam using such power so casually. There was only time to make one, simple choice.

Dean gave Sam his hand. He didn’t remember much after that. A flash of light that blinded him. The roaring of his blood in his ears. Waking up sore, tired, and cold on a bed of dirt.

“What?” he croaked as he tried to sit up. Something that looked suspiciously like a body was laying just to the side of him. 

“They’re dead,” Sam said. “I would have felt bad about that once. They were human, following after Azazel because of empty promises he made them. But I don’t… I barely feel anymore.”

“Well, we’ll fix that after we fix you being out of your body,” Dean said. If there was one thing he was getting good at, it was ignoring the future implications of excessive magic use. 

“You should probably worry about that now,” Sam told him. “I’m not certain my body will hold me anymore. Dean… I might already be dead.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Dean growled as he stumbled over to the pole that Sam was still chained to. “You’re going to be fine.”

“Saying that sort of thing doesn’t make it true, Dean,” Sam argued. 

“He is right,” Castiel said. “You have no idea what will happen if you release him.”

“What do you know?” Dean growled back at him.

“He used to know a lot,” Sam said. “Castiel used to be like me. A spirit chained up by magical fetters, feeding Azazel’s plan. With him, Azazel could see out into the world. He watched you and anyone that he thought could oppose him.”

Dean stopped working on the chains. “Familiars aren’t…” he didn’t know how to finish that sentence. Didn’t want to think about how odd it was to have a blue eyed raven as a familiar.

“He couldn’t bear the pressure any longer. Couldn’t stand being used to destroy lives. He said that he could find you. If I… If I just…”

“Sam,” Dean interrupted, “don’t think about that right now. You and Castiel can have a nice, long talk about how you apparently turned him into a bird later. Right now, we need to get out of here before Azazel comes back.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” Sam conceded. “I used up most of my strength as well as yours to banish him. He’s not going to stay gone for long though.”

“Great. Well, let’s get you off this cliff then,” Dean said with as much finality as he could muster. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The trip back to what Dean had come to view as his lair was tense. Every noise seemed to bring with it the promise of danger. While Sam was only as heavy as the shackles that bound him, Dean dared not push his horse to move quickly. Attracting the attention of fellow hunters would be a very bad idea, and running horses always caught attention.

Yet he dared not ride slowly either. Sam’s, rather successful, plot to free himself was not foolproof. Azazel would come after them as soon as he came back from wherever Sam had sent him. It was best if Sam was unshackled before that happened.

Dean tried not to think about how removing Sam from his shackles might end his life. He tried not to think about how bright Sam’s soul was or how it seemed to be losing human shape as if Sam himself was starting to forget he was human. He tried not to think about his own soul and wonder if his magic had singed him in the way that it had Sam or even Castiel. 

Arriving at his lair was something of a relief. While Dean had spent years planning and researching, his strength had always been action. Sam’s body lay in state, waiting for Dean to break the shackles that kept its soul from rejoining it. 

Sam said nothing as he was lead inside the small building, but Dean hesitated when Sam placed the shackles across the anvil that Dean had long ago purchased. 

“If I do this, you might die,” Dean forced the words out of his mouth. Castiel seemed to echo his distress with a soft caw of agreement. 

“I have to do this,” Sam told him. “I can’t stay like this.”

Dean took a deep breath and nodded. He knew that and knew that there was only one thing that could be done. 

There was a flash of light burning through the room as Dean slammed the hilt of his sword down onto the shackles around Sam’s noncorporeal hands. He had to grit his teeth together, ignoring the flame like power of Sam’s soul as it licked around the cracks made in his bindings.

If Dean had thought the power curled inside of him was strong, it was nothing compared to the brightness of Sam’s soul. He could see and feel why Azazel had so wanted Sam’s power. Such energy was unparalleled. In all his journeys, in all the ways he had changed himself, Dean had never felt anything close to the power of Sam’s soul.

Though he still worried about what might happen to Sam when released, Dean did not open his mouth. He would not question Sam’s decision again. Instead, he lifted his sword up and brought it down again, making another crack in the shackles.

He could feel Castiel’s gaze on him from across the room, could feel the familiar’s concern inside of his own soul. If Dean was one to let his mind wander, he might think about how strange it was that all his effort to become a powerful wielder of magic was ultimately pointless when compared to Sam’s orchestrations.

One way or another, Sam was going to leave his prison within the hour. He would either return to his body or leave for an afterlife that Dean would likely not see soon. Without Sam’s peril to drive him, Dean wondered how his attitude towards magic would change.

He did not voice his thoughts aloud. Instead, he focused on slamming his blade down over and over until at last Sam’s binding’s fell away. If he had been brilliant before, his soul was now painful to look at. But Dean didn’t let his eyes waver from the blurry suggestion of Sam’s face. If this was to be goodbye, he wanted his chance to see it and say it without hesitation.

That Sam was going somewhere was clear. His form was already dissipating. His gaze was not locked on Dean’s, but on the raven perched on the other side of the room. Something like a smile covered his features as he gestured in Castiel’s direction.

It was only thanks to the changes of Dean’s body that he could sense and feel the magic Sam sent in the bird’s direction. Were he the hunter that had set out those years ago, he would never have been attuned enough to magic to feel it. But he was different now. Even though he kept his eyes fixed on his brother, he knew that some sort of magical work was afoot behind him.

Sam mouthed, “Goodbye,” at him as his form dissolved more and more rapidly. Dean echoed the motion, tears gathering at his eyes. Then, Sam’s spirit was gone. Dean desperately wanted to look in the room where Sam’s body lay. At the same time, he was frightened to do so.

If Sam’s body had finally grown cold, he would have to bury his brother. That was not how he wanted his sacrifices and efforts to end.

“Dean,” a rough, strange yet familiar voice rasped.

Dean turned quickly to stare at a naked man with great, black wings furled over his shoulders. If he thought himself immune to surprises, he was being proven wrong. “Cas?” he asked.

“I, uh, yes,” Castiel stuttered. “I, Sam…”

“Sam made you into some sort of angel?” Dean tried to keep the incredulity out of his voice. The more he thought about the power of Sam’s spirit, the more uncomfortable he was with it. 

“It’s complicated,” Castiel said. “We should check on Sam.”

“Right,” Dean agreed. Even though he wanted to put the moment off, he forced himself to walk into the room where Sam’s body lay. There wasn’t even time to waste on opening the door as he had never bothered closing it when he had first shown Sam’s spirit the state of his body.

“About time,” a voice Dean had thought he’d never head again whispered.

“Sammy,” he said with a chocked voice, tears finally getting the better of him.

“Hey,” Sam said, a tired smile pulling at his lips. “Looks like you’re not getting rid of me after all.”

“I’m sure I’ll manage,” Dean said. Between Cas’s new state and Sam’s returned one, he was going to be busy for a while. He found that he really didn’t mind. 

[](http://s1308.photobucket.com/user/missaceriee/media/Thought%20and%20Memory/1000px%20Thought%20and%20Memory_zpsxdsm6fjb.png.html)


End file.
